Old pilgrims sewed a shell to their hat and walked with a staff taller than themselves. They weren't headed to one fixed place. They were walking toward a horizon that renewed itself at every dawn. You were born with the Sun in Sagittarius, and you need that same morning. Jupiter, the ruler of your sign, doesn't promise you luck. He teaches you that faith is a muscle, that meaning gets chased on foot and never found sitting still. Something in you needs air, books, maps, conversations that open windows, journeys even short ones. Without that room to expand, you go out like a fire someone pulled the wood from. The friend who calls you restless has it backwards: you are an animal that only breathes easy with its eyes set far. The trap isn't dispersion, whatever they simplify. It's mistaking the horizon for an exit, calling it a search when it's really not staying once what is near begins to ask things of you. The real question of your sign is where you enter, not where you leave. So next time the road pulls, walk it, then come back. See whether the thing you were chasing out there was actually asking for depth in the place you keep leaving.